Words and Photos by Tim Patterson

My fingertips are bleeding, sliced raw by the sharp little teeth of
wild cutthroat trout. The fly I'm using is all chewed-up too, a hopper
pattern that's been reduced to a little yarn and loose thread on the
slim shank of a barbless hook.  Dew is dry and the mountain sun has climbed high over the rim of the Lamar valley.

Still, the fish keep biting.

Fly-fishing can be an art, but my tactics are industrial.  I've only
got one leader, the thin piece of monofilament to which the fly is
tied.  That's not enough line to allow for changing patterns, and with
camp still five miles up-trail, there's no time to bother about fancy
casts.  Instead, when the trail curves close to the river I set my pack
against a dry pine log, change leather hiking boots for rubber water
shoes and pick my way to the middle of the stream.

There's no one to help if I slip or turn an ankle, so I move carefully
across the riverbed, concentrating on each cold braid of current.  All
I hear and sense and smell and feel is water and air and the dull
musical growl of river rocks tumbling downriver in summer snowmelt from
the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness.  I'm utterly content and
totally alone.

Firm-footed at the head of a riffle, I loosen a loop of line and let it
drift downstream so that the fly sinks deep into the pool below. Two
red-tailed hawks wheel overhead.  Three times they cry before I begin
my retrieve, stripping line home with smooth pulls, alert to the flash
of gold on blue that marks the commencement of frantic communion with
pure wild energy, beauty and fear.

The trout hits.  Everything tightens.  Heavy and confused, it turns in
the current, then leaps clear.  I raise the rod-tip, taking in slack as
fast as I can until the fish catches sight of me and shoots downstream
in a panic once more.

When the fish is played out I hold her for a moment in still water by
the riverbank.  She's a handsome cutthroat, nearly 18 inches long, the
blood-orange slash under her jaw so vivid it seems to pulse.
Captivated, I unhook the fly and gradually loosen my grip on the fish.
As time shifts back to normal we both hold still, slowly returning to ourselves, recovering from the moment of release.

The trout finds her freedom and darts back into the flow.

I sit in the sun until my feet are dry.  Then I put on my socks, lace
up my boots, hoist my pack and set off down the trail, yelling "YO!" at
intervals to let the bears know I'm coming.

……

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